


Branded

by Demitria_Teague



Category: BBC America - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety, BDSM, Bloodletting, Canon Au'ish, Different Spiritual Planes, Fantasy, M/M, Panic Attacks, Psychic Abilities, Purgatory, Slow Burn, Supernatural Abilities, Telekinesis, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demitria_Teague/pseuds/Demitria_Teague
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when a reformed evil man protects his reluctant past life adversary against supernatural thugs trying to steal his life essence?  </p><p>This is a supernatural adventure involving redemption, a shocking relationship development, new friends, mental powers and intriguing new worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

Branded Cover 

 

 

"Pain. Arms," Jim slowly mumbled. He was sitting on the floor, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he absentmindedly ran the tips of his index and middle finger over the inside of his bent arm. He involuntarily sucked in a desperate breath that caught in his throat. The sudden action caused a sharp pain to slice through his throat. His head had a slight jerking motion to it as he looked around with wide eyes.

"No." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Where?" He gasped as he felt the reminiscent pain on the left side of his head. "No," he cried out. "Not here any more."

The tingling feeling started deep in his gut. "Bubbles..." He put his hand to his stomach and flattened his fingers out. His eyes remained wide as a small smile began to form on his lips. "Bubbles..." His mouth opened to say something else, but it quickly snapped shut.

Suddenly, he threw his head back and a hysterical laugh erupted. His body slumped to the ground uselessly as he continued to laugh, the sound reverberated off the thick concrete walls of the abandoned building he was now laying in. Just as suddenly as the laughter had started it stopped. A large tremor worked it's way through his body causing his arms and legs to jerk out at random times. He grit his teeth as a sharp burning sensation flared through his right hand.

Blackness collapsed on top of him like a tsunami and his body went still.

 

[-]

Mass confusion swam across his mind, which caused his heart rate to speed up. He cried out desperately as he clawed his way through the fog in his mind. His brain seemed to sit on top of his eyes and a sharp nagging sensation irritated his senses as he drudged forward. "Where..." His voice echoed around inside his skull and it was so loud that he screamed out in pain. "Not here any more."

More pain. More screaming.

[-]

She was seated a few feet away from him and she welcomed the tugging feeling that had drawn her here. It was reaching out towards this man. Jim. That was his name. He was 64, but his body helled the youth of the day he'd died.

 

 

He'd committed suicide a year ago at age 34. That fact and every other fact of knowledge about him seemed to come from no where and fit perfectly in her newly compartmentalized mind. She could see the files arranging themselves.

Objective: "Protect Jim." One order. One program. Protect Jim and she had all the means to do so. No resolve, no weaknesses, and most importantly, no conscious.

Her body flickered, becoming see through for a second before snapping to a form of solidity that she hadn't felt in a very long time. "Protect Jim."

[-]

Jim awakened with a groan. He felt warmth coming from some where to his left and he smiled when he realized there was a fire place. Warmth. Fire. Warmth.

He shuffled across the thick carpet on his knees to get to the fire place. His eyes stung with almost tears. He let out a small laugh as the warmth seeped in to his skin and he closed his eyes as it seemed to sink in to his bones. It'd been so long since he'd been warm. His eyes snapped open and he froze at the sound of foot steps behind him.

"Jim," the voice said. It was female and the way it said his name sounded like a declaration. His heart leaped as he analyzed all of this in an instant. His mind seemed to stretch out, then snap back in to place as he realized that the person standing behind him was someone he could trust. "Familiar," he whispered.

He quickly turned his head around and he was staring in to the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. "Familiar," he said in a mono-toned voice. The girl standing in front of him appeared to be about fourteen. "No!" He roughly shook his head.

Woman, she was a woman. Her body appeared to be fourteen, but she was older than that. Much older. "Ninety eight." His eyes widened slightly as a steady stream of information about her began to flow in to his mind.

"Familiar," he said firmly.

Her demeanor was calm and confident as she said, "Yours. Familiar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my story.
> 
> To support my work: Leave Kudos  
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> 
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> 
> I thank you again for reading my story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reveals his strange dreams to John, who thinks he may need to be drug tested.

Blog Post  
January 5, 2015

As of three hours ago I officially became the proud father of my first son, Henry Watson, six pounds, six ounces. He was born at 2:13 A.M. and he looks like his mother. Mary is doing well. The delivery was brilliant, no complications at all. I'm sorry to cut this short, but I have fatherly duties to attend to.  
Until next time,  
Dr. John Watson

"When did you start treating your blog posts like personal letters?"

  
John sighed loudly and looked over at Sherlock who was staring intently at him over the top of his laptop. "Exactly, what do you mean by that?"

  
His face scrunched up slightly before he said, "This is a business blog, not a letter to your fan base. What does your suddenly becoming a father have to do with our business?"

Typical Sherlock. "This blog is personal, because we are our business. The readers need to know that we're not just a corporate machine. That we have lives beyond the cases we solve."

"Why?"

"It helps them connect with us. Why do you think the business took off in the first place?" Sherlock's expression changed and he quickly cut him off. "...and please don't say it's because of deductive reasoning."

Sherlock's expression became neutral.

"The clients learn about us. They feel more comfortable to come and ask for our help." He rolled his eyes when Sherlock's eyes moved from his and back down to the lap top screen.

[-]

Sherlock watched John until he was out of sight. He apparently had to go home and give Mary a break from their child so she could do something or other. He didn't care. What he was currently interested in was the package in front of him. It was a wide card board package which contained his own personal laptop.

He was so tired of hearing John complain about him using his, so he'd remedied that. Sleek design, color black, wide screen, fluid office grade keys, plenty of memory. He quickly hooked the charger up to it and allowed it to begin updating itself. While he waited he sat in his favorite chair and sipped his tea impatiently.

15 Minutes Later...

"Come on," he growled over the rim of his cup. He was on his third cup of tea and he was becoming impatient. How many updates did a new computer need. Really?

10 More Minutes Later...

"Ugh... Finally!" The keys moved as easily as he'd hoped they would. "Office Word," he said as he pulled the program up. Ok, that worked. He clicked the X button and the program vanished.

The plain black home screen reappeared. He sighed deeply and lowered his head.

"Sherlock."

He lifted his head and glowered. "Mrs. Hudson, please!"

"I heard yelling in here," she said softly. "Is everything alright?"

Without looking at her he said, "I'm fine. Please leave me to my work."

She sounded excited as she asked, "You've caught a new case already?"

"No."

"No?"

"No!"

She huffed and pulling her sweater closer to her body she quickly left the room.

He shook his head in frustration and went back to what he'd previously been doing.

[-]

That night...

Sherlock groaned in his sleep. He was curled up in his bed. The lights were off and the only sound that could be heard was the small whir of the tiny fan he'd clipped to his head board. Lately, he'd found himself growing hot as he slept. His eyes flickered behind his lids and he groaned again.

Blue. Bright white light flashed all around him. It was too wide to be misconstrued as lightening. Blue blue blue. Flash.

Slivers of conversation floated to him.

"No! No cutting. I can handle this." The light was so bright. There was pressure on either side of his arms.

"Please. Just let me handle this."

Silence.

Flash. Pain sliced across the air. A scream. Flash.

"Anna..." The light swirled like a cloud all around.

Sherlock groaned and turned over on his back. "Anna," he mumbled.  
"Please," the voice begged. Bright red burst out in all directions and mixed with the bright swirling cloud of light.

The world seemed to closed in on itself and it began to grow dark.

  
Silence. Nothingness.

[-]

"Hello, John. What are you doing here?" Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. She had been standing in the hallway when John had come in.

He smiled and said, "Mary's enjoying Mommy Time and I thought I'd pop over for a spell. Is Sherlock in?

She looked up at the floor of his flat. "As far as I know." She looked back at him. "It has been strangely quiet, though."

He eyed the stair speculatively. "Well, I'm going to go on up."

"Alright, dear."

The flat was indeed strangely quiet as John made his way inside. "Sherlock?" He peeked his head around the seating room only to find it empty. He moved fully in to the room and then he crossed the room to see that the kitchen was also empty. Sherlock's newest questionable experiment was sitting on the table where it'd been earlier.

He tipped his head slightly and called out Sherlock's name again. "Hmm..." Of all the things that John could have expected to find Sherlock doing it wasn't sleeping in his bed, with the lights off, like a normal person. Upon first spotting him he actually flinched. "Wha..."

Darkness shrouded most of Sherlock's frame, but the light from the hallway made it possible for John to catch his friends expression. His brows were knitted tightly and he was mumbling something unintelligible. Shock immediately turned to amusement as he heard Sherlock clearly say, "Anna." He gently shook him a few times and frowned when he didn't immediately jump up in a heap of flailing arms and legs. "Sherlock..."

"Sherlock!" He finally yelled after a few more unsuccessful tries at shaking him awake.

Sherlock's eyes popped open and his entire body went stiff. It took him a few moments to realize what was going on and when he did he turned angry eyes on John. "Why did you wake me up?" He demanded angrily.

  
John cocked an eyebrow at him. "Why are you even sleeping at all?"

 

"I like sleep. I can sleep when ever I want to." He sat up and quickly crawled off the end of his bed. As soon as his feet his the floor he was crossing the room and John had to hurry to keep up with him.

"I was in the middle of an experiment, John." Sherlock stopped in the seating room and plopped down in the chair in front of laptop that John had never seen before.

John watched him half curious, half confused. "Um... Do you care to elaborate?"

"Sleep. I was sleeping."

He looked away to rein in his frustrations. When he looked back Sherlock's fingers were flying across the keyboard. "Ok. New computer. Sleep. Anything else you want to tell me?"

Silence.

"Right then." He plopped down in his chair and crossed on leg over the other.

[-]

Precisely twenty minutes later...

The sound of Sherlock's voice makes John jump.

"So, in the past few months I've been having these really strange dreams."

John blinked a few times. He cleared his throat before he said, "Ok, and?"

Sherlock roughly ran his fingers through his hair, which made his curls stick out widely. "It was always a little light here and there."

"Light?"

"Yes, light. A bright light. At first it was too bright to see any thing. Slowly, it started to become bearable."

John crossed his arms and studied him carefully.

"At first, I thought it was just a dream. Then something strange happened."

"What are you going on about?"

"The light, John. Something about the light. It was always so concealing, then it parted. I started to see blue. Once the blue started I started to hear conversation."

"At first it was inaudible. One night it became possible for me to understand what was being said. It's a conversation between a male and a female. Their voices are still shrouded, so it's hard to make out the context of the conversations or what kind of conversation they're actually having."

John shook his head a few times. "Am I going to have to get Lestrade to drug test you?"

Sherlock huffed in frustration. "I'm not on drugs!"

"Would you please calm down."

"I am calm. I'm trying to explain something important and you're dismissing it as some wild fantasy."

"Are you even listening to yourself?"

"Forget it." He flies to his feet and marches to his room.

"Sherlock?" John calls out. He makes a face at the sound of Sherlock's door slamming closed. "What in the bloody hell was that all about?"

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shows off a baby picture to Mrs. Hudson and apologizes to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of M/F sexual relations, but shows nothing in detail.

"Is something wrong," Mary asked John when he got home that night.  
John had his hands in the pockets of his coat and he was frowning at the floor. "I'm not sure," he said without looking up at her. 

"Want to tell me about it?"

He looked up and smiled. She was wearing the white gown he'd bought her. The one with the lace top and his body heated up as he thought about the matching lace panties he'd also purchased. She seemed to recognize his expression, because she smiled in a most inviting way. "Are you wearing them," he asked, his eyes sparkling with hope.

"What do you think?" She playfully asked. 

A large shutter of excitement ran through him. "I love you."

She squared her shoulders, which accentuated the shape of her breasts through her gown. "I know," she teased.

[-]

A good few hours later...

"So, he grew angry with you when you threatened to get him drug tested?"

John groaned. "Yes. I will admit, not my finest hour."

"You need to apologize."

"I know." He sighed. "I just don't understand what he was going on about."

She tapped his shoulder gently. "That why you need to talk to him. He opened up once. If he trusts you he'll open up again. It's Sherlock. You're lucky he told you any thing. Especially, with that kind of material."

"Yes, bright lights, blue, conversation. I've never heard him talk about any thing resembling dreams. Hell, I've never seen the man sleep before."

"Really?"

"Yes. He's always working on something. He's like the walking affirmation for workaholics and insomnia at the same time."

Henry's cries came over the baby monitor.

Mary smiled. "I'll get him."

John smiled as she pulled on her robe and he listened to the sound of her house shoes shuffling down the hallway.

[-]

John was surprised to find Sherlock asleep on the couch in the seating room the next day. It was too weird. He thought about waking him up and decided against it. He went down stairs and found Mrs. Hudson seated at her kitchen table. She offered him a cup of tea, which he happily accepted. 

"How are you today, dear?" She smiled at him over the rim of her cup.

"I'm well."

"How are Mary and Henry."

"They're good. After we went shopping she decided it was Mommy Time again and shooed me out of the apartment."

She laughed. "I always knew you two would make good parents."

He added a lump of sugar to his tea and picked the small silver spoon up from the dish to stir it with. "Thank you. We're really getting on quit well. The only bad part is the crying, but once he's fixed up with a bottle or fresh diaper he's good again."

"That's great."

He pulled out his phone and brought up the Files section. Mrs. Hudson leaned over to see the screen better. 

"Awww," she said. Henry was asleep in his crip. He laying with his face on his little blue pillow and his little diapered butt in the air. She giggled loudly. "He's so precious."

 

John felt himself blush as he smiled at the compliment. "He really is."

[-]

Sherlock gasped loudly and his eyes popped open. "Moriarty," he growled out. This changed things. No. "No it doesn't," he said out loud.  
"Moriarty's dead." 

It was just a dream. If that's what you called it when you saw blue, and bright lights and experienced some one else's pain as it played out in your subconscious. The moment of denial was quickly dismissed as he thought about the change he'd experienced in his dream. What ever had been stopping him from being able to understand what kind of conversations were going on had vanished. 

Moriarty's voice had instantly become recognizable and he'd heard more of the conversation he'd been catching bits of pieces of for the last couple of weeks. He went to his computer and pulled up the file he'd been recording his dreams in. 

Late Morning. 9 P.M. 

The males voice is that of Jim Moriarty. The female voice is of someone young. I don't recognize it. 

The conversation between them seems like Moriarty is asking for the young female to not do something, I'm assuming violent. To what avail, I don't know. There isn't enough data.

This was stupid. Why was he dreaming about Moriarty at all? With all the passion of a sociopath that couldn't help but to be intrigued he turned his attention back to recording what he'd seen.

Now that I've heard the conversation clearly (I suspect there's a lot more I haven't heard) I am led to believe that the random moments that red explodes across what ever subconscious world I go in to when this dream takes place is blood. 

What did that mean? His first thought was that Moriarty was back to doing something involving blood shed, but that didn't make sense. For one, Moriarty was dead. For two, just the fact that he thought those specific words 'Moriarty was back to doing something involving blood shed' was strange. It was in present tense, as if he'd never died at all. 

The conversation goes like this -

"Please don't. I can handle this. No one needs to die." 

There's silence. I assume the young female gives some type of motion (A nod, or another physical representation that they are taken in to consideration what Moriarty has said) and Moriarty says, "Thank you. Please don't interrupt me unless I absolutely need you to protect me. That means my asking you to do so." Then there's nothing. No sounds. Nothing to indicate more. Of course, there has to be more. 

A conversation with some one else. I want to know what started the conversation to begin with. I know I previously mentioned the females voice. In this bit of the conversation she doesn't speak and for the life of me I can't remember any thing she's said in past dream sessions. I do know that I vividly remember her speaking, though.

I will add to this when I have new data.

He saved the update and closed the top down. 

[-]

"Oh, you're up."

Sherlock was seated in his chair.

"And you're dressed. Going out?"

"No."

"Ok." When he didn't say any thing else he sat down in his own chair and looked at him for a few seconds. "About last night. I'm may have been a little..."

"Rude."

He snorted. How ironic that he would be the one to be called rude by Sherlock himself. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Exactly. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

Beneath Sherlock's stiff posture and intense gaze John couldn't help but think that their was an underlying 'Don't worry. You didn't hurt my feelings,' or 'I don't have feelings to hurt.' 

"So, do you want to finish telling me what you were talking about last night?"

"It's just dreams. I made too much out of it. You know how I can be."

John cocked an eyebrow. He did know how Sherlock could be, but he wasn't daft. He knew him better than any one and there was something he was hiding. He didn't know what it could possibly be in this particular situation, but there was definitely something there. Was it really important for him to know what it was? 

If it had to do with dreams, good or bad, as long as it wasn't something psychologically damaging, he didn't think so. Resolved in his analysis of the situation he let it go.

"Ok, then. Have you landed any more cases?" The look he gave him hinted at his intense frustration. So, that was a NO! He didn't press. 

"We should get out. I really need to do something." Being on fatherly duty and coming over here was all that he did any more and he really wanted to do something different for a change.

"What do you have in mind?"

He was surprised that he agreed so easily. "We could go for a coffee. We could eat. I am kind of hungry."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Ok, food it is." He stood up and smoothed his hands down the front of his coat. 

[-]

That night John told Mary about the fact that he thought Sherlock was hiding something from him. As he suspected, she told him that it was best if he waited for him to reveal it in his own time. He hated that he'd missed an opportunity find out more about his dreams, though. He was now more curious than ever.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim realizes that Sherlock is getting close to finding him.

Click click click click click. Scriiiiiit. 

Jim inhaled a breath. He pressed his face closer to the pillow he was sleeping on. 

"Never mind, John." He watched a door slam closed.

"What in the bloody hell was that all about?"

Groaning, Jim forced his body in to a sitting position. The couch he always slept on groaned with his movement. He still had his eyes closed and he felt groggy as he let his head droop for a minute while he composed himself. Small, familiar foot steps stopped some where to his left. He smiled lightly. "Anna," he said, voice thick with sleep. 

When he opened his eyes he was comforted with the sight of his body guard standing in the door way. She had grown significantly in the last six months. She no longer resembled a fourteen year old girl, but that of a young woman in her early twenties. Her blue eyes scanned him like they always did to make sure that he was ok. 

"Are you hungry," she asked. 

His smile grew a little more. He was always glad when she was satisfied, because when she wasn't he had to endure the annoyance of her barrage of questions and sometimes the torture of her prying in to his mind. He'd admit that he'd done some things in those early months since he'd found himself here that he wasn't particularly proud of and he'd be glad when Anna decided to finally let them go. Her only job was to keep him safe and at first she'd seemed robotic in her mission, but as time moved on he started to see a change in her. She still didn't act like an emotional adept human. 

She cared about him on some low emotional level and that in itself is what had made him quit trying to kill himself. She cared, so naturally and with his new found conscious he cared two. He cared for her and for himself. It still felt strange at times, but over all he felt that he'd adjusted nicely. 

"Yes, I am. What would you like?"

She continued to look at him and he rolled his eyes. "Chicken? Biscuits? Eggs? Anything?"

She didn't even blink. He smiled in amusement. "Fine, let's go out, then. I'm going to take a shower first. Meet me in the car in ten?" A small tip of her head and she backed out of the room. 

[-]

"What can I get for you?" The waitress asked. Her accent was American and she looked bored as she helled her order pad out in front of her.

Jim blinked a couple of times. Ever since he'd gotten back to the earth plane he'd have certain thought's that would take on a life of their own, creating a mental image in his minds eye and this time the word bored was made of wood. The font it was carved in to was an elegant one and the boldness of the letters stood out as it flew around a circular room and slammed in to each available service. The waitress seemed to fade away enough to where he could see the scene in his mind happening inside her body. The word bored swirled around the area that would be her stomach and the room encompassed the entire area starting just underneath her breasts and down to her pelvic bone.

The room stretched out further than her waist. He shook his head lightly and the room seemed to tilt on it's access. At the same time he felt a firm pressure on his right hand the room and the word bored disappeared. The waitress was still staring at him and her expression hadn't changed. "I would like coffee," he said softly. 

She wrote the order down and looked at Anna. Anna shook her head and the waitress left their table. Jim felt himself start to shake. It was a small sensation that began in his shoulders and quickly spread down his arms and in to his hands. Anna grabbed the hand of the arm she had squeezed and helled it firmly between her fingers. 

Jim relaxed in to the familiar touch, but he couldn't stop himself from shaking. Boredom is what had ruled his actions his entire life. Then, he'd killed himself to end the torture. He didn't think like that any more, but his past life still haunted him. "Maybe coming out wasn't such a good idea today," he said.

Anna let go of his hand. "There is nothing wrong with having a tiny episode in public. You don't have to hide and you don't have to explain yourself."

She'd said that to him so many times already and although he understood it and agreed with it, it still didn't make it any easier. He felt like a freak when he was in public. His eyes were an unnatural shade of blue and that in itself was enough to turn heads. Not to mention the fact that reality was an illusive thing and his mind did what ever it wanted, which had left him paralyzed in public or screaming at phantom pains. He scared people.  
He used to scare himself before he'd gotten used to all of the things happening to him. 

"Are you still going to order food?" Anna asked and her voice was gentle and soft. This was one of those rare moments where he appreciated her for exactly who she was. Her first instinct wasn't to get annoyed at him. Her expression was neutral. He didn't think he'd be able to handle some one glaring at him right now. 

He moved his hands off the table and clasped them in his lap. "I think I'll just drink my coffee for now and then I'll see how I feel afterwards. Ok?"

"Ok."

[-]

He didn't manage to work up enough of an appetite to eat at the diner, so he ordered a chicken biscuit and took it home with him. He eyed the wrapper of his food on the way home. It wasn't easy to get a chicken biscuit in London, but American diner's were becoming a new thing and he wasn't complaining. The drive home took about five minutes. Once they were inside Anna put some wood in the fire place before she lit it up.

Jim grabbed his notebook off the side table and flipped it open. He added the important details from his dream this morning. Nervously, he began to chew on his thumb nail. "Sherlock's getting close," he said.

Anna looked over at him from her seated position by the fire place. "What will you do when he finds you?"

He rocked back and forth a few times as he continued to chew on his thumb nail. After a few minutes of contemplative silence he said, "I'll probably run."

"Why?"

"He's not going to be very happy." He locked eyes with her and opened his mind. Immediately, he felt her slipping in to his memories.

"You threatened his friends. You tried to get him to kill himself. He's going to be angry."

"Correction. He's going to be furious." He tipped his head slightly and shrugged his shoulders. Amusement laced his voice as he added, "And he's going to be shocked beyond belief that I'm still alive. I mean, even with the dreams of my, what he'll assume survival, he's still going to be in shock when he sees me standing in front of him."

"What if he tries to harm you? I will protect you."

"I know, but he's not going to just shoot me. It will seem worse than what it is. A lot of scuffle and yelling, but no real danger. He's a curious one. He'll want to know how it's possible. He'll want me to tell him every thing."

"Which you're going to do."

"Yes, but on my terms. I don't want to be in a stressful environment. We're going to meet rather abruptly. I need to be able to relax."

"Why don't you just avoid him. He's trouble for your development."

"I am developing just fine. I feel like I'm being drawn to him and it's more than just penance." He chewed on his thumb nail again. He felt nervous all of sudden. "Why was he being drawn to Sherlock? 

He didn't understand that himself, so how was he supposed to explain it to Anna? She looked back at the fire. The conversation was over. He sighed and returned his notebook to it's place on the side table. It wouldn't be too long now. What was he even going to say to Sherlock when he seen him again? 

Guilt slammed in to his gut making him gasp for air. He wished he could say that he missed the days when he could easily shut down his emotions, but he didn't. He'd been a monster then. He would never be that person again. The thought made him sick to his stomach. 

No, this was much better. He could feel. He prefered this. Even if it was over whelming at times.

[-]

Sherlock groaned and rolled over on to his side. He'd fallen off the couch and his brain was scrambling from the shock. It was the second time in a week. He remained motionless for what he assumed was a few minutes and allowed himself to just breath. These dreams were beginning to mess with him. 

At first they'd been distant and he'd been the observer. Now, he was experiencing them like he'd been the one to go through the pain. There was so much pain. He rolled over on his back and touched his right temple. While he was dreaming there was always a pain that throbbed so bad that it made him want to throw up. 

Even awake, he could still remember the feel of it vividly. He swallowed hard. Once again he asked himself 'Why is this happening?' It wasn't like he was losing his mind. He hadn't experienced any kind of trauma that explained why he was experiencing these dreams. 

He'd been tortured in his life, threatened by world class criminals and nothing had fazed him. It just didn't make since. There was only one thing he could do and that was to continue recording what he saw and what he experienced. Some where down the rabbit whole something was bound to stick out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to recreate the shade of blue he dreams about. Jim practices one of his knew abilities and he's shocked to have a vision foretelling Sherlock's death. He and Anna rush to help him and he prays like hell that they make it on time.

His body was weightless. His breath hitched deliciously as he rose up and up. A harp was playing somewhere. A small smile played along his face. It was an almost there sensation and it made his stomach do a little flip as he tried to analyze the feeling. The surrounding area could only be described as that because there was no roof to stop him from rising and there were no walls to encompass a feel of being in any where with a defined perimeter. 

Light shimmered around him and it was beautiful. It made him think of sunlight reflecting through a diamond lens. He felt that familiar tug in his gut when he found something that caught his attention enough to kick start his obsessive nature. The more he tried the more he felt the ability slip away from him.   
Relax. 

His eye lids dropped lower. He felt that excitable energy literally recede back in to his body to sit just below his rib cage and that small smile was back on his face again. What appeared to be large bubbles began to dance around him. The blue color reminded him of the blue he always saw in his dreams lately. The bubbles shrank down slowly, keeping their original length and they reminded him of water as it ran continuously over a solid surface, momentarily taking on the shape of that surface. 

His first instinct was to reach out and try to touch them, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to do that. He wondered if they'd feel like the airy wisp of a bubble beneath his finger tips or if they'd have the thick liquid substance one associated with the feel of water. They began to swirl slowly and the blue inside of them glistened with the same reflective effect that the white light around him did. It was a dazzling display of light and bold colored ballet and he felt his body fade away. 

There was only one word that could explain the sensation that he felt when this happened. Free. No more analytic thoughts to belittle his brain. No more human boundaries to slow him down. "Free," he whispered. 

The word shattered as soon as he spoke it and scattered in all different directions. They moved too quickly for him to see and then the fragments were gone. He felt his face frown, which was odd. An odd sensation tickled where his stomach would be and he gasped as his body snapped back in place. 

"What the..." This time his words came out of his mouth and they didn't shatter. The light began to vibrate slowly and he felt his head swim. Suddenly, he was violently thrown in to a tunnel of total darkness.

[-]

Lazy sun light filtered in through the curtains of the sitting room. John guessed it must be about seven thirty, which was an odd time of the day for any one to be sleeping. He eyed Sherlock's curled up form curiously before he turned from the couch and began to study the newly begun easiled painting. The canvas was medium sized, taller than it was wide and it was splattered with different shades of bright blue. He wondered if this had something to do with the dreams Sherlock had been talking about.

Leather squeaked behind him and he turned around in time to see Sherlock turn over and bolt up right in to a sitting position. His chest was rising and falling quickly and he was breathing loudly in tune to the movements. "You ok," he hesitantly asked. He didn't seem to hear him. "Hello?" He said slowly. 

Slowly, Sherlock turned his head to look at him. His eyes were unfocused and very slowly life trickled back in to them. John couldn't help, but be amused. He'd never seen Sherlock so out of it before. His mouth tugged up at one corner. 

"John?" 

The confused tone of Sherlock's voice almost made him snort in laughter, but he resisted. Still fighting the laughter that was bubbling inside of him John said, "Sherlock."

"I was dreaming."

"Uh huh." He studied his face carefully. "Coffee?"

[-]

Sherlock was clutching his mug like it would fly away if he released his grip even a little bit. John knew he should be worried about his behavior, but he couldn't find it in him. Sherlock's curls poofed out causing him to resemble a poodle, his silk robe was wrinkled and falling off one shoulder. He was even more a sore sight than usual and John once again found himself resisting the temptation to laugh out loud. "So, this dream," he said smiling as softly as he could manage. "Want to tell me about it."

Sherlock remained silent for a good few minutes, taking slow sips of his coffee as if he hadn't asked him a question. When he did finally speak John was surprised at how normal his voice sounded. 

"The dream was different this time." He inhaled deeply and straightened his shoulders, instantly regaining his usual high up Sherlock appearance. 

"What changed?"

"It wasn't the usual pop of blue color, or burst of sudden red, and there were no snippets of conversation. Every thing usually comes in a stream of steady repetitiveness. This time I was floating in an undefined area that was free of time or space."

John's eyebrows raised. 

"The same shade of blue appeared inside of bubbles." He ground his teeth. "Don't give me that look. I believe it was symbolic. Of what, I'm not sure."

"The blue and red seems to exist out side of what ever else comes in to play. Every thing I've seen besides those display of colors are always brilliantly serene. Beautiful, majestic even. There seems to be an underlying beauty with in the dark parts, but it's all connected some how. Like, they belong to a certain place. Somewhere of reverence."

"Reverance," John said. "Like, dangerous?"

"I think that's only one part of it."

Hmm. He didn't know to take that. "Soooo?" Sherlock was looking at him like he always does when he's found something that excites him. Rounded, wild eyes, hands clenched in to fists and he's practically vibrating with porely suppressed hyper energy. "Is there more?"

"Well," he says flippantly, turning his head. "There was the bit about any words I spoke fragmenting and speeding away, but that's not what's important."

"There's an important part?"

"Yes," he growled excitedly. At the same time, he leaped up, reminding John of a super tall five year old. He leans down to eye him intently and says, "It means that I'm getting closer."

"Closer to what?" He was genuinely curious, although in the dark recesses of his mind he thought that Sherlock had officially gone mad. He wasn't about to tell him that. 

"I don't know."

He smirked up at him. "You seem excited about that fact."

His smile grew wider and he said, "I am. It's something new. Something exciting." He sighed. "I don't feel like I'm falling down the rabbit hole any more. More like I'm on the other side and I'm about to reach a revelation."

"A revelation, huh?" He'd had enough. "Well," he said, standing up. "When you reach that aspect give me a ring, ok?" 

"Where are you going?" Sherlock shouted. 

"I'm escaping," John shouted back.

He blinked rapidly at the empty door way before he carelessly shrugged. The sight of his newly begun painting bored him so he scraped it to replace it with a fresh white canvas. He squeezed out some new paint and began to mix colors. His intention was to recreate the shade of blue he saw in his dreams, but so far it continued to elude him. He wasn't giving up. 

Alternative methods be damned. 

[-]

The only light in the room is from the flame from the fire place. Jim is sitting cross legged on the thick white carpet in front of it. He has his elbows braced on his knees and the finger tips pressed together in front of his face. His eyes are wide, but his expression is neutral as he focuses on opening his mind. The constant anxiety he feels is a momentary distraction. 

He'd had a good day, so it's easy to focus beyond that fluttering sensation. It's eventually forgotten and he starts to get a clear picture of the room he's in. The large, old, mahogany shaded couch is behind him at the end of the carpet he's sitting on. The tall dresser is over to his left against the wall the door's embedded in. A tiny scratch pops out to his heightened sense of sight. It's more a nick really. 

The scene of someone bumping a small wooden box in to the dresser flicks through his mind and he pushes it away, uninterested. He focuses harder and his vision shrinks in to a small bubble. He takes a few minutes to strengthen to center himself. "Breath," he whispers, taking in a deep breath. "Just breath." When he feels secure that his concentration will hold he conjures up the memory of the front door of Sherlock's apartment. 

He feels a shift and the door isn't just a memory. It's solid and the color of the paint pops beneath the glow of the street light. There's a resistance as he tries to push his vision through the door. He ground his teeth as he realized that he was over thinking it. The door was solid, but he wasn't. 

It was his mind, not a physical form. He let his thoughts wonder for a moment and it did it's trick. They all faded away and he couldn't help but smile at his small victory. The physical quality of the door disappeared and his mind moved through the space like there wasn't a door at all. A small light was on in the hallway and he could see the stair case that led up to Sherlock's flat. It wasn't like he needed the light. 

He could reach out with his other senses and simply use that to lead him to where he needed to get. Every light in the flat is on as he moves through the kitchen and he can sense Sherlock in the next room. He find him facing in his direction and he's wearing his pajama's, hair sticking out in all directions and half of his body is hidden behind an easel holding a canvas. He inhales slowly and focuses on widening the space of his vision. As he does so he can make out the small frown on Sherlock's face and the deep knit of his brows. 

To any one else he'd appear to be angry, but to some one who was used to obsessing over things he recognized the look well. He was lost in concentrated determination. He was on a mission and this painting was one of the steps he was taking to reach his set goal. Jim gasped as the entire room exploded with the color red. He felt like he'd been stabbed all over his body with needles and his vision of Sherlock in his flat shattered like a broken mirror would. 

A scream ripped from his mouth and he scrambled backwards until his body hit something firm. He pitched around and saw that it was the couch before his body started to violently shake. Blackness started to creep in to the corners of his vision and he lost consciousness.

[-]

There was a low vibration underneath him and when Jim opened his eyes he recognized the interior of Anna's car. He gasped as he remembered what had happened. "Sherlock, he's..."

"I know. I know," Anna interjected. "We're on our way." 

He felt them accelerate and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Anna was amazing and this wasn't the first time he felt grateful to be connected to her. She saw what he saw, felt what he felt and she always responded in the right way. "Thank you," he said turning in his seat to look out windshield. Anna didn't respond, like he knew she wouldn't. 

She simply did what she referred to as her duty and like she accepted him as he was he did the same in return. The black pavement flew by them and Jim fidgeted in his seat. He wished he could simply call Sherlock and warn him against the impending danger, but he knew that was out of the question. The red had been a vision of death, but that's all he'd gotten. No time limit or who or what was going to be the cause, but clearly Sherlock was in danger. 

He gripped the strap of his seat belt and began to pray that they'd make it on time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes up with a way to sleep with out dreaming as Jim and Anna keep an eye on him and his friends.

"Oh, it's a bit nippish in here," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as Sherlock passed her in the hallway.

He pulled his robe closer to his body in agreement. "What's wrong with the heat?" He asked angrily as he entered the sitting room. 

"I don't know, dear." 

"Don't touch any thing," he firmly said as she reached for one of the books on John's chair. He plopped down in his own chair and reached for his laptop. It opened easily and he sighed happily as it booted up just as easily. He pulled the fold her always added the dream data to and paused with his fingers hovering over the keys. "Was there something you wanted," he asked. 

He rolled his eyes when she started fidgeting. "What is it?"

"Well," she began scratching a place on her cheek. "It's just... John seems worried about you. I heard you the two of you shouting at each other."

"So, we do that all the time. It's the way we communicate with each other."

"He seemed very... off the last few times he's spoken about you."

A few dreams ago I was intrigued by the fact that the color red was making more of an appearance, but...

He looked up at her. "He thinks I'm either on drugs or I'm having some brain splitting mental break down." Her expression made him frown. "I'm clean damn it."

She smiled lightly. "I know. It's just..."

"What?" He demanded.

"When the two of you fight it just makes me sad."

He sighed loudly before saying, "We're not a couple, Mrs. Hudson." 

She laughed. "Domestic aside, I just hate to see two people drift apart."

A loud car horn sounded outside and it continued down the street. Sherlock cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his computer. "Me and John are fine. Is there any thing else?"

I am beginning to feel more tired. The discomfort I feel in the dreams is the same as one would during a nightmare and because of it I can't seem to get enough rest. The pain is becoming more prominent and it's weighing down on me in my awake time. 

"No no."

He looked up to see her turning around. "I'd like some tea. Cream, sugar."

"I'm not your housekeeper dear."

"The usual."

She disappeared in to the hallway.

As much as I find this experiment intriguing I am starting to think that if this nightmare affect persists I'm going to start missing things. I need to find something to help me sleep with out dreaming. Just a few nights. Then I'll pick up where I left off. I surely hope that when I start doing this that it doesn't mess up the pattern of the dreams when I want to start having them again. 

To be continued at a later time...

He lowered the screen and placed the laptop on the floor. "Uh..." He groaned as he ran a hand down over his face. "So tired."

[-]

That night...

By the time Sherlock decided to go to bed his entire body ached from the effort he put in to remaining upright. He concentrated on the cup of tea he was holding. He'd never been this tired before. Steam rolled over the brim and he gritted his teeth as the hot liquid nearly did the same. "Oh, I hope this works." 

He sprinkled a small amount of his newly purchased sleeping powder in his tea and used a tiny glass tea spoon to stir the powder around until it completely dissolved. There was a weird maple undertone as he carefully sipped the liquid. Now, all he had to do was wait for the sleeping powder to kick in. His sheets were nice and cool as he settled down beneath them. He clicked his bed side lamp off and closed his eyes. 

[-]

"Hello, dear," Mrs. Hudson greeted as John peeked in to her kitchen. "Have you eaten breakfast yet?"

He smiled and felt his mouth start to water. "No, ma'am. Not enough time for Mary to cook this morning. She had a doctor's appointment and I had to drop Henry off at Day Care. Thought I'd pop in for a chat with Sherlock before I went to work."

"Oh, well, help yourself." She motioned to a table full of different foods. There were biscuits, bacon, muffins, and eggs. There were even brownies.

He walked up to the table and wiped a fake tear away from his eye. "Wow, you have a feast here. What's the occasion?"

She shrugged. "I've just really been in to cooking lately. I thought I might donate some food to the shelter near the square. Take as much as you want, dear. I'll get you a plate."

"Thank you so much. Wait until I tell Mary about this. She's going to be so jealous."

"Oh," she playfully smacked him on the arm before handing him the plate. 

The food was still warm as he added a decent helping of eggs, a few pieces of bacon, and a biscuit to his plate. 

"Would you like some Jam?" 

"Oh, yes, please." He took the opened jar from he hands and slathered the Jam on to his biscuit. 

Mrs. Hudson handed him a napkin. "I'm going to take out the trash. You can eat here or take it on up."

"Thank you."

He decided to eat at the table. It didn't take him long to finish. 

[-]

Feeling much better, he made his way upstairs to Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock was seated in his chair with his knees pulled to his chest and his coat wrapped around his body. He was watching television and John barely caught the words he had been shouting at the screen. 

"Any thing good?"

"Not bloody likely." He stood up and huffed in frustration. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

John smiled and took a step in to the sitting room. "What's that smell?" He asked curiously as he took a good look around. "Did you clean in here?"

"Yes, why?"

He smirked. "At first, I thought maybe you were cracking up. Still not quit sure you're not, but I got to say. The whole cleaning bit. It's good."

"Shut up."

[-]

Jim pulled the hood of his coat tightly around his ears and adjusted his seating position until he was comfortable. He and Anna had been keeping an eye on Sherlock for the last two weeks. Nothing dangerous had presented itself. Some of the potential clients coming out of Sherlock's flat were... He didn't want to be rude, so he settled with the word odd.   
There had been one wearing an obscene amount of colors. 

They reminded him of a walking Skittle and then there had been the one who wore a hat so big that she had to remove it and turn it sideways in order to get in and out of the front door. He sighed. Moments of inactivity were not his favorite time. The silence brought back the memories. 

He didn't want to go there and he refused to think that word. The one that made him lose his grip on reality. Anna had assured him that this was a good thing. She said that he was growing stronger, but he wasn't so sure about that. He didn't think that having panic attacks in the middle of a crowd or waking up screaming from a nightmare he couldn't remember was what you'd consider strong. 

It was true that he was getting a better handle on his new abilities, though. For that he was grateful. He'd recently managed to see Sherlock's flat in his mind with out having to focus on it. It was just a flash, but it gave him hope that he would reach a new level in his training sooner rather than later. He looked over to see Anna who was sitting cross legged with her eyes closed. 

He reached out with his mind and she projected her foresight out for him to see. Her quality and range was amazing. She had the live feed of Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson and the perimeter around their own hide out simultaneously playing out in her head. Each person's feed was square shaped like a small television screen. Sherlock was top left with John underneath. Mrs. Hudson was top right with Mary underneath and their perimeter was in the middle. 

He focused on Sherlock and his square began to grow until Jim could easily see what was happening. Sherlock was sitting up on his seating room couch. He had a blanket draped over him and he was sipping on a cup of tea. Jim gasped as he was suddenly made aware that Sherlock was drinking tea mixed with a fine blue sleeping powder. A shiver ran down his body as he felt the affects the sleeping powder was having on Sherlock's system. 

His muscles were relaxing, his eye lids were growing heavy and he was excited about that fact. Jim pulled his mind away and he blinked at the concrete wall before him. The heavy feeling of Sherlock's body lingered for a few minutes and Jim had to get up and pace back and forth a few times until he felt normal again. "How much longer do we have to do this?" It wasn't that he minded keeping Sherlock and his friends safe, but squatting in a concrete building with roll out cots to sleep on and one barrel to make a fire in was not pleasant. 

She spoke with out opening her eyes. "Have you had any more visions like the one you had that brought us here?"

"No. Nothing visual, but I still have the feeling that Sherlock is in danger."

"Then we'll remain here until that feeling is no longer there."

He sighed. Of course, that was what they were going to do. He licked his lips to moisten them before he crossed the room to roll out his cot. "Wake me if you need me."


	7. Chapter 7

_It hurt. It hurt so much. "Anna," he screamed. Something hit him in the head so hard that he felt the vibration in his teeth. Stars exploded behind his eyelids and he suddenly felt light. He couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet any more._

_His body moved, but it felt strange and it took him a minute to realize that the room was moving and not him. His head no longer hurt and his vision was clear. It wasn't surprising that he was in the air and that there were people standing below him. The room began to move again, which made him feel dizzy. It was circular and when it moved it swept him in a wide arc until he could see the faces of the men standing below him._

_He blinked a few times when he recognized himself down there. No, not himself. This was a different version. He had brown eyes and was wearing a suit and a thick grey jacket. His face was bruised and there was blood flowing from a wound on the right side of his head._

_Jim tried to get closer, but he couldn't move. The scene below him was frozen. Like, a still frame taken by a camera. The longer he stared at it the more he felt something flicker at the back of his mind. It he could just get closer he could..._

He could...

"Jim. Jim..."

His eyes popped open and he gasped at the close proximity of Anna leaning in to his space. "What?" He breathed out. His heart was beating too fast and he couldn't seem to get enough air in to his lungs.

 

 

"You were having a nightmare," she said.

She leaned back on her heels and he breathed in a sigh of relief when he felt the availability of oxygen open up. He took long deep breaths and felt himself returning to normal. When he felt enough like himself he said, I was not having a nightmare. I was remembering." His eyes widened as he instantly paused.

He'd meant to say dreaming. Not remembering. Was it possible that he'd been reliving a memory from his time before he'd returned to the earth plane? "I need my journal," he said quickly. He wanted to write down this experience while it was still fresh in his mind.

Anna stood up and crossed the room to dig in his bag. It didn't take her long to find it. He used a simple hard back sketch pad as his journal. The blank pages gave him more freedom then lined ones did. He only wrote important things in it like this dream slash maybe a memory.

There was no Dear Diary, because it made him think of a ten year old girl pouring out her heart and dreams. Neither was there a Dear Journal, because that just sounded stupid. Besides, writing down what happened each day was so boring. Except working on his powers and as of lately, keeping an eye on Sherlock, nothing interesting enough to write about happened.

[-]

"Oh, he's gotten so big," Mrs. Hudson said. She helled Henry up to study him. His head was very round on his shoulders and his eyes seemed to disappear behind his his large cheeks.

Mary smiled affectionately. "Oh my, yes. Can you believe he's three months already?"

"Three months, really?" If I didn't know better I'd say he was some where around six months."

"Yes, he's mommy's little chubby boy." She ran her index finger over his cheek a few times and she and Mrs. Hudson laughed as one side of his mouth quirked up.  
"That reminds me. Did you bring the invitation?"

"Oh, yes." She leaned over and pulled the invitation out of her purse."

Mrs. Hudson handed Henry back to Mary and took it. The envelope was plain white and 'You're Invited' was scrawled across the front. "Impressive penmanship."

Mary smiled. "John has a way with his hands." She grinned as Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her cheek.

"Naughty naughty," she said as she began to giggle.

"Apparently, I have a way with words."

They both laughed.

[-]

"John, how nice to see you," Sherlock greeted. He was coming down the hallway and quickly closed the space between them. John eyed him curiously. "What?"

"You're awfully chipper today." He smiled in amusement.

"Of course, I am. I've slept well for the last couple of days. My painting is coming along. Speaking of, what do you think?"

John had been studying his painted for a few minutes before Sherlock had come out of the bathroom and he'd decided it was interesting to say the least. "It's very colorful."

"I can't keep the damn colors from running together, but that's for today's project." He brought his left arm up and fiddled with his sleeve until he managed to get the button through the hole. "Besides colorful, you have to have an opinion on it."

John sighed and turned back to study it again. After a minute he said, "You know, I'm really not much of an art person."

Sherlock put a hand on each of his shoulders and gently shook him a few times. "Forget trying to figure out some brilliant explanation on the subject and really put your heart in to it. What emotions are elicited when you look at it?

"What?"

"What does it make you feel, John?"

"Um.." He squinted at it, then allowed himself to relax as he tried to take it all in.

"Stop thinking and feel."

He pushed Sherlock hands off his shoulders. "Yes, just give me a sec, will you?" One side of the painting was filled with vibrant shades of dark and light blue and the other side was filled equally vibrant shades of dark read and a deep shade of almost brown. The blues delicately swirled and became wide and circular where the red shot out in a violent way. The almost brown was thicker in texture and it was off putting some how.

"It seems to me that the contrast of colors are opposites. The blue makes me feel light, happy, but it's ore than that. It's... I don't know, fantasy like."

"And what about the other shades?"

"The red makes me think of blood. Like blood being shed. From a gun shot or something else violent."

"More like an explosion of blood."

He looks back at him. "Yes, exactly."

"And what about the brown?"

"It makes me unsettled. I can't place the feeling."

"It is a general representation of many things that come from that dark place. Old wounds, dried blood and the more you stare at it the more it all starts to fester. Until it's no longer under your skin, but it's seeping from your very pores and spilling out in to your every day life."

"Um..."

Sherlock's expression immediately changed and he was smiling again. "At least, that's what I've gotten so far. He crossed the room and threw himself in to his chair. "More dreams to have," he added as he picked up his tea. "More assessments to be made."

John sat down in his own chair and simply watched Sherlock for a few moments. He sipped his tea gingerly and remained clueless to the fact that he had seriously disturbed John by his way of explaining his painting to him. "So, you analyzing your dreams. It seems a little out stretched for you."

"Well, seeing as I have no cases as of late I need something to do to pass the time."

What more could he say? At least he wasn't angrily pacing the room and demanding for him to purchase him cigarettes.

[-]

_April 14th, 2015_

_It has been nearly two months since our local Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes has had what he'd call a proper case. However, he seems to be taking it quit well. He has focused all of his current attention on Dream Analysis. His newly awakened passion on the subject has even gotten me interested. Even though the subject far breeches his previous material he approaches it with all the vigor of a man in search for the truth._

_Of what truth, I am uncertain at this point. I have uploaded the image of his finished painting like I promised. Sherlock has begun a new painting. One with less colors and more detail. We'd love to hear your take on dreams, dream analysis and Sherlock's painting._

_I will report any new developments on the subject matter at hand or any new cases at a later date._

_John Watson_

[-]

John was surprised when Sherlock asked him to go coat shopping with him. Brighten's is a local vintage shop that sells every thing from Nick-Nacks to clothes at an insanely cheap price. It has more of a homey feel to it, unlike the usual eery, dusty feel one often associated with places like this. That and the prices were also the reason that they had such good business.

"It's good thing it's Wednesday," Sherlock said as he straightened the collar of the jacket he was trying on.

John was standing a bit away from him at the hat rack. He is currently wearing a denim fishing hat and reaching for a white baseball cap when he pauses. "Why is that important?"  
"I only shop here on Wednesdays. It's three days after the shipping day. Enough time has passed for them to have all the new stuff on the shelves and not enough time for people and B.O. and sticky fingers to have mashed up the merchandise."

John rolled his eyes. "Seriously, why do I even ask anymore? And what in God's name are you wearing?" The coat Sherlock had on looked like a giant feminine blanket with black racing stripes down every end of it. "You're not seriously considering wearing that, are you?"

Sherlock made a face at him. "No. I was just curious. It truly is ghastly." He straightened his shoulders and turned to the side to get a different view in the full sized mirror. "Besides, I thought it'd made a highly entertaining Christmas present for Mycroft."

"I thought you two didn't shop for each other."

He grinned evilly. "We don't."

John couldn't help, but laugh. "Alright, who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"

"I'm just mixing it up. Mashing things. Have some fun." He stopped talking when he saw John's expression. "Too much?"

"I don't have words."

Sherlock bought a small black coat that almost resembled the one he was wearing now, but with less tail and more pockets. It was also thinner in material. John decided he liked the white baseball cap and wore it out of the store after he purchased it. It went nicely with his great sweater vest. They decided to pick up some coffee on the way back home. The cab ride back was ridden in a comfortable silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story. 
> 
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